


i've been waiting for the sun (to rise where you are)

by notcaycepollard



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Ice Play, M/M, Pining, Pre-War, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 03:22:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15940763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: “Christ,” Steve says without thinking. Reaches out to touch the bruise on Bucky’s throat. “What’d she do, try and eat you alive?”“Oh,” Bucky says, quiet, maybe a little embarrassed. “No, I mean—you know, it was just a little necking.”“Right,” Steve agrees, “necking,” as if he’s ever done anything of the damn sort, and then notices another bruise, lower down, right on Bucky’s collarbone. If he squints he can make out the shape of her teeth, the way she’d set them into Bucky’s skin and bitten down, laid claim, and it makes Steve oddly furious, makes him want to hurt Bucky himself. He digs his thumb hard into the dark bruise on Bucky’s throat, scrapes his nail across Bucky’s skin, and it’s a step too far, he knows that, sorta expects Bucky to sayhey, or maybecome on, Steve, what the hell.He doesn’t expect the sound that comes out of Bucky’s mouth: a breathy little gasp that has Steve running hot in a second, and then it’s like the both of them are holding their breath, the air full of nothing but still dark heat and the summer storm still crackling outside.





	i've been waiting for the sun (to rise where you are)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thisbluegirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisbluegirl/gifts).



The thing is.

The _thing is_ , Bucky has this habit of leaving his collar askew, unbuttoned a little too low, and Steve’s not really sure when he started looking for it, watching for the pulse in Bucky’s throat, the dip and hollow of his collarbones, a swathe of bare skin and scattering of chest hair curling out of the unbuttoned V of his shirt.

It’s—it’s silly, it’s dumb, they’ve hung around each other for years shirtless or in their underclothes, summers of sunning themselves and swimming down at Coney Island or cooling off out on the fire escape. Steve should be used to seeing Bucky in his undershirt, suspenders hanging loose around his hips, standing at the sink so he can shave up properly before a date or a night on the town. And he is used to it, it’s just—he’s noticing it more, suddenly.

 

It doesn’t help that this feels like the hottest summer they’ve ever sweated through; their apartment barely cools down even at night, is airless and sweltering, and they can’t do much else but strip down soon as they get in the door, peel off to nothing but damp cotton undershirts now that they’re not in polite company.

“Here,” Bucky says, getting in, shucking off his shirt and tie; he’s bought them popsicles, already melting in their trip from the freezer down at the corner store, and Steve tears his open, sticks it in his mouth, watches Bucky suck at the tip of his. It’s indecent, Steve thinks, Bucky’s mouth flushed from the ice, syrup-sticky and shining; it makes him flush hot all over again, and he bites down savagely on the ice of his popsicle, lets himself feel the shock of it in his teeth. Winces a little.

“Thanks,” he says, belated, and Bucky shrugs, crosses to the sink and runs the water. They’ve only got a cold-water flat but that’s all anyone wants, these days, and Bucky shoves his ice pop in his mouth, holds it there for a minute while he holds his hands under the faucet, splashes cold water on the nape of his neck. It leaves his undershirt even damper, clinging and transparent along the collar, and Steve blinks, looks away.

 

He’s still got a bit of illustration work to finish before he can knock off for the night, is trying to get it done before sundown, but Bucky’s lounging in the chair opposite, stripped all the way down to undershirt and boxer shorts, and it gets under Steve’s skin, irritates him like a splinter or a bruise.

“Go take up the couch, wouldja?” he says, not looking up, biting at his lower lip. “You’re distracting me.”

“Too hot on the couch,” Bucky says, “that wool upholstery, it holds the heat,” but he gets up anyway, opens the icebox. There’s a clink of glass, the sound of Bucky popping the cap off a couple of bottles, and then he’s sitting back down, sliding a beer across the table. “Come on, you can get that done tomorrow, right?” he says, cajoling, and Steve catches his lip between his teeth again, concentrates on getting the curve of the lettering right.

“No,” he says, but this time he does glance up, reaches for his beer and takes a sip while letting himself look at Bucky, his head tilted back, the way he’s pressing the cool glass of the bottle against his cheek. The beer is bitter, sour; Steve doesn’t much like it but he drinks it anyway, makes himself swallow. Catches sight of a bruise livid on Bucky’s throat and it burns dark inside, enough he thinks he might choke. He swallows again, hard.

“So, what, you get a little fresh with Alice Sloane last night?” he says, and makes it come out light, makes it easy and teasing exactly how it should be. Bucky’s head snaps down, eyes wide and a little surprised, and Steve lifts his hand, taps his fingers against his own throat just where Bucky is marked up.

“Oh—” Bucky manages, still looking kinda taken aback, somehow, and touches his fingertips to the bruise. Laughs a little. “Yeah, I guess.” He sips his beer, chews his lip, winks slowly at Steve. “I could ask if she’s got a friend.”

“I’m good,” Steve says, short. Drops his gaze back to his illustration; he’s distracted himself too much, the light’s going, shadows deepening as the sun drops low, and it’s always a damn sight harder working under the electrics but he guesses there’s nothing else for it.

 

He’s getting close to finished when there’s a rumble of thunder, the summer storm that’s been brewing all week finally coming to a head. If he stuck his head out the window he’d be able to smell the ozone in the air, the crackle of it; maybe that’s what’s under his skin, making him edgy and rough and too-tightly constrained, wild for a fight or a drink, the quick sharp pain of someone’s knuckles against his mouth.

“Christ, it’s hot,” Bucky complains, and then there’s a gust of wind that brings in storm rain through their open windows, scatters Steve’s pages across the kitchen floor. “Aw, _shit_ , come on—”

“Shut the windows,” Steve orders. “Sorry, Buck, I gotta get this finished tonight if I’m gonna get paid for it tomorrow.”

“I’m gonna die,” Bucky announces, “all these windows shut up,” but he slams them closed anyway, gathers up Steve’s work and sets it carefully back on the table. “ _Fuck_ it’s hot.”

“Language,” Steve says, absent, trying to figure out the right shade of blue under the harsh light of the bare kitchen bulb, and Bucky makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat, gets up to fiddle with the wireless. Steve’s nearly done, back cramped and neck sore, wrist tight from holding the brush all goddamn day, and then there’s another crack of thunder and their lights flicker and die, apartment suddenly pitch-dark and breathlessly still.

“Fuck,” Steve says into the darkness, reflexive, “shit, come _on_ ,” and Bucky laughs, quiet.

“Hold still,” he tells Steve, “don’t smudge your work or spill your ink or whatever you’re about to do, I’ll find some candles,” and there’s a series of thumps as he walks into the couch, barks his shin against the kitchen chair, before he’s fumbling in the pantry, lighting a couple of the paraffin candles they keep for the times they’ve forgotten to pay the damn electric bill.

“Guess you ain’t finishing that tonight,” he says, pouring molten wax into a saucer so he can set the candle into it, and Steve sighs, lays down his brush, stretches for a long and back-cracking moment.

“Guess I’m not,” he agrees, and feels something inside of him loosen, just a little.

 

He takes the couch, since Bucky doesn’t want it; stretches out full-length, reads his paperback by the light of the candle flame at his elbow. They’d tried opening a window to get some air in, even if it’s wet with summer rain, but the candles had blown right out, so they’re stuck in a still and breathless heat, sweating and worn out by it.

Bucky’s on the floor, one leg stretched out and the other drawn up, knee bent. Steve tries not to look too long at the paler skin on the inside hollow of his knee, the long line of his bare thigh, but he’s doing a bad job of it; Bucky doesn’t seem to notice, head pillowed on one arm and the other flung over his face, and Steve finds himself lowering his book, looking more fully at the shape of Bucky’s shoulders, the lean curve of his chest and ribcage and the strip of bare skin between shirt hem and boxer shorts. It makes him itch for his sketchpad, but not enough to get up, and then Bucky sighes, stretches and exhales, pushes himself up on his elbows.

“Christ,” Steve says without thinking. Reaches out to touch the bruise on Bucky’s throat. “What’d she do, try and eat you alive?”

“Oh,” Bucky says, quiet, maybe a little embarrassed. “No, I mean—you know, it was just a little necking.”

“Right,” Steve agrees, “necking,” as if he’s ever done anything of the damn sort, and then notices another bruise, lower down, right on Bucky’s collarbone. If he squints he can make out the shape of her teeth, the way she’d set them into Bucky’s skin and bitten down, laid claim, and it makes Steve oddly furious, makes him want to hurt Bucky himself. He digs his thumb hard into the dark bruise on Bucky’s throat, scrapes his nail across Bucky’s skin, and it’s a step too far, he knows that, sorta expects Bucky to say _hey_ , or maybe _come on, Steve, what the hell_.

He doesn’t expect the sound that comes out of Bucky’s mouth: a breathy little gasp that has Steve running hot in a second, and then it’s like the both of them are holding their breath, the air full of nothing but still dark heat and the summer storm still crackling outside.

“Oh,” Steve says, stupid, heady with that noise; he wants to make Bucky make it again, wants to lay him out and hurt him until he moans. Bucky shivers like he’s shaking off Steve’s touch, and Steve pulls his hand away. Doesn’t know where to look.

“Sorry,” Bucky says, rough, awkward for once like all his easy charm’s been stripped away with nothing but the scrape of Steve’s thumbnail against his pulse. “That just—I wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”

“You like it,” Steve says, knowing. Needing it to be true. “People biting you. You like the way it hurts, huh?”

“Shut up,” Bucky mutters, and Steve can see the way he’s blushing, a hot pink flush spreading out over his cheekbones, patchy down his throat, and they’ve gone nowhere yet but it feels like they’ve gone too far to be lying about this. He gets his fingers into Bucky’s hair, the sweat-damp curls at the nape of his neck, makes a fist and pulls, and Christ, that’s it, Bucky’s head snaps back and he’s moaning like he can’t help it, quiet and wounded, and Steve tightens his grip, pulls harder until Bucky’s throat is a long bared line in front of him.

“Yeah,” he says, “you like it,” and it ain’t like Bucky can really deny it, not with his dick tenting his boxers the way it is, but Steve’s obscurely pleased when Bucky doesn’t; when he just gasps again, closes his eyes, licks his lips and goes pliant like he’s waiting for Steve to take him apart.

 

It’d be easy to back out; dumb, maybe, but it ain’t quite like they’ve crossed a line, not just yet. Steve doesn’t. He sits for a minute with Bucky’s head pulled back, touches two fingers to the hollow of Bucky’s throat where he can see his pulse thrumming. Watches a bead of sweat roll down into the dip between his collarbones.

“Steve—” Bucky says, quiet, maybe a little desperate, a whine catching in the back of his throat, and just like that Steve knows what to do. Lets go of Bucky’s hair and reaches for the nearest candle, snaps it out of its saucer and tests the liquid wax against the back of his hand. It’s hot, but not intolerable: a quick flare of pain followed by dissipating warmth, and Steve scrapes it off his skin, drops the ball of soft wax in the saucer.

“Shut up,” he tells Bucky, “and hold still,” and Bucky does, doesn’t even open his eyes or draw breath, just holds himself still for whatever Steve’s got planned. Steve pauses. Holds the candle over Bucky’s throat, and tilts it, watches the wax drop and hit Bucky’s bare skin in little spatters that solidify and pool white.

“Fuck,” Bucky swears, his whole body shuddering, and Steve does it again, more wax this time, running in a long rivulet down over his collarbone. “ _Fuck_ ,” Bucky says again, and it comes out a little slurred like he’s drunk with it already.

Steve sits forward. Drips the wax again, watches it run down Bucky’s throat and chest, and it gets a noise out of Bucky, this helpless overwhelmed gasp that makes Steve so satisfied he can’t hardly stand it.

 

Bucky looks like he’s wearing a stiff collar of wax by the time Steve pauses; he’s blissed out, pain-fucked, irises eaten up by the black of his dilated pupils, and he might come home from his dates messy, lips swollen and red from kissing, but he’s never looked like this. Steve wants to crow about it, wants to pin him down and make him admit Steve’s better for him than anyone else.

He gets up instead, uncurls from the couch, and then has another better idea. “Buck,” he says, tugs the cushions off the couch and onto the floor, and Bucky lays them flat, stretches out on them like he’s waiting for more.

“We’re running low on candles,” Steve says, can’t help but laugh a little. “I’ll be right back,” and while he’s in the pantry he glances over at the icebox, wonders if they’ve got enough ice left he can chip some off.

When he gets back, Bucky’s got his head pillowed on both hands but he looks on edge, impatient, chewing on his lip. Steve sets down his fresh candle, the bowl of ice, and unbuttons his fly, kicks off his pants; he’s sorta embarrassed, his skinny knees, thin ankles, but it seems ridiculous to have them on while they’re doing—whatever it is they’re doing—and besides, Steve doesn’t want to get wax on them.

“God,” Bucky says, voice low enough it sounds like a growl, the sound of it curling up Steve’s spine. “God, Steve.” And then Steve sets one foot on each side of Bucky’s body, settles himself astride Bucky’s hips, and Bucky’s breath rushes out of him like it’s shocking. They’ve sat like this a hundred times before, a thousand, roughhousing and play-fighting, Steve doing his best to pin Bucky while knowing Bucky could throw him off with the smallest of effort, but this—Bucky’s dick rutting up against Steve’s ass, hard and hot through the two layers of their thin cotton shorts—it’s, fuck, it’s not the same at all, it’s completely different, and Steve wants to roll his hips, wants to rub against Bucky until he’s gasping for it.

“Better take this off,” Steve says instead, pulling at the hem of Bucky’s undershirt, “unless you want to ruin it,” and Bucky shrugs.

“Ruin it,” he says, “I got others,” but he sits up just long enough to tug it off before settling himself back down again. Steve can’t help it, lays his palm against the stretch of Bucky’s bare ribs, strokes down his side and watches Bucky shiver.

 

_Tell me you want this_ , Steve wants to say. Doesn’t. Just reaches for a chip of ice, uses his thumbnail to peel away the wax on Bucky’s throat and sets the ice down on the notch above his collarbone. Bucky jumps and then relaxes, startled by the sudden chill, and Steve laughs again, touches his ice-wet fingers to Bucky’s jaw.

“Feel good?” he asks, and Bucky nods, watches him light the new candle.

“I’m so—” he says, “it’s so—god, it’s hot.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, because it is; the air’s so hot and close he can feel sweat running down his own spine, beading at his hairline. He tilts the candle, almost casual, and it drips onto Bucky’s ribs, the pale skin of his belly, before he lifts it higher, lets it fall right onto one dark and peaked nipple. Bucky bites back a shout, arches into it.

“Do that again,” he demands, “fuck, do that—”

“Shhh,” Steve tells him, but he does it again, drips a bigger stream of wax onto Bucky’s chest. Bucky groans, closes his eyes, and Steve reaches for another ice chip, waits for Bucky to relax before he presses the ice against the reddened skin, rubs it up over his nipple. It gets a noise out of Bucky, something that resonates in Steve’s whole body. “Shh,” he says again, “you’ll disturb the neighbors, sounds like that,” and Bucky nods, sets his jaw. “Here,” Steve says, “I know. Open your mouth,” and Bucky does it, lips parting to show a flash of slightly crooked white teeth. “Yeah,” Steve murmurs, “just like that,” and picks up an ice cube, touches it to Bucky’s lower lip before setting it on his tongue. “Think you can hold it there for me?”

Bucky nods again, melting ice already pooling in his open mouth. Steve touches the corner of his mouth, just briefly. Considers his bare chest, where to pour wax next, and runs a trail of it from Bucky’s collarbone all the way down the center of his sternum, flicks another spray of wax over his pecs. A couple of droplets land on his nipples again, and Bucky jerks up but doesn’t make a sound. The more he’s sweet for Steve, the more Steve wants to make him moan, and he shifts down so he’s sitting on Bucky’s thighs, scrapes his nails over Bucky’s hipbone and drags the elastic of his boxers lower.

“God, Buck,” he says, awe in his voice even as he doesn’t mean it to be, and runs a long rivulet of wax down the dip of Bucky’s hip, the sharp wing and hollow of his hipbone. Does it again, the other side, and Bucky swallows convulsively, tilts his hips up. His dick’s pressing against the thin fabric of his boxers, a wet patch visible where he’s been leaking precome, and the rest of him is wet too, gleaming in the candlelight, slick with sweat and melted ice. “What do you want?” Steve asks. Not really asking; just watching the way Bucky reacts to his voice. “You want it hot? Or more ice?”

“I—” Bucky says, nods, shakes his head. Bites his lip.

“What?” Steve asks again. Tugs his waistband down until Bucky’s dick springs free, and god, Steve wants to taste it; wants to hold an ice cube in his mouth until his lips are numb and then swallow the head of Bucky’s dick, hear the noises he’d make. He drips a little wax instead, low on the plane of muscle between Bucky’s hips, and then more, higher up. Takes a chip of ice from the bowl, where it’s mostly melted into a slush by now, and trails it over Bucky’s skin, the slight curve of his belly. “Come on, Bucky, you want something?”

“Touch me,” Bucky says, ducking his head like he’s shy about it, embarrassed. “Just—your hands on me, Steve, Christ, do you know—” and Steve gives in, wipes his icy fingers on his own shorts, strokes them down Bucky’s side and up again. Traces a circle around Bucky’s nipple, still stiff with wax, and flicks it just enough to knock the hardened wax away.

“Like that?” he says, knowing it ain’t, knowing what Bucky wants and wanting to hear him say it nonetheless. Bucky throws his head back. Groans, loud, and Steve smirks, blows out the candle and sets it down. “Like this?” he continues, pinching Bucky’s hipbone hard enough to bruise, and the noise Bucky makes at that is beautiful, makes Steve’s own dick throb.

“Steve,” Bucky says, sighing, and takes one hand out from under his head, grabs at Steve’s hand and pulls it down to his dick. “Please, you gotta—”

“Oh, I gotta? Jeez, Barnes, you get this fresh with all your dates?” Steve mutters, but he takes Bucky in hand anyway, rubs his thumb over the head where it’s slick with precome. “Christ, you’re something.”

“Like you can talk,” Bucky gasps; he’s close already, on edge for what must have been hours by now, and Steve wants to treat him nice but he wants to make him come apart harder so he twists his hand, lays his other hand on Bucky’s ribs and sinks his nails in until he’s raising welts on Bucky’s smooth summer-golden skin. It makes Bucky cry out, desperate, and Steve leans forward, claps his palm over Bucky’s mouth, strokes his dick hard and fast and unforgiving, and that ain’t no good either because Steve wants to do more than just keep Bucky quiet so he shifts his palm down until it’s set right on Bucky’s throat instead, and then he licks his lips, looks down at Bucky laid out under him and thinks _to hell with it_ and seals his mouth over Bucky’s, licks into it and bites savage at his lower lip.

 

Bucky comes just like that: moaning into Steve’s mouth, pulse hammering under Steve’s palm and dick twitching in his hand, and just as Steve’s thinking _oh fuck_ and about to pull away, Bucky cups his palm around the nape of Steve’s neck, holds him there and kisses back, lush and sweet and wanting, and then he’s pushing his other hand into Steve’s pants, stroking Steve’s dick like he knows just how Steve likes it. He probably does, Steve thinks dizzily; share a twin room for long enough and you’ll learn how someone likes to jerk off, only also maybe it’s like he’s thought about it, getting Steve off, and that’s dizzying all over again, a thought that resonates through Steve until he’s filled with nothing but _fuck, Bucky—_

“Yeah,” Bucky says into his mouth, “come on, come on me,” and that’s so goddamn hot Steve does just that, pushes himself up and sits back on his heels so he can watch himself come in hot pulses all over Bucky’s fucking chest, spatters on his collarbones and throat and _Jesus goddamn Christ_ his mouth, and then Bucky looks up at him and licks it off his lip, pupils dilating like he’s getting off on it, and Steve thinks he might come a little more just from the goddamn sight of it.

“Language,” Bucky says, teasing, and Steve pants for air, pushes his damp hair off his face where it’s sticking to his forehead.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says. “Jesus _Christ_ , Buck.”

“You made a mess of me,” Bucky says, sounding pleased. “Go get me a cloth, wouldja?”

Bucky really is a mess, covered in scribbles of wax and come, sweat-slick; Steve looks down at him, considering, and then gets up on shaky legs, comes back with a wet cloth and one of his black ink pens.

“The fuck,” Bucky says, when Steve uncaps his pen and finds a bare stretch of skin, scrawls his signature. “You’re writing on me now?”

“It’s modernism,” Steve says, gesturing at Bucky’s chest. “Abstract work. Pure expressionism. Look up Kandinsky, okay, I’m a genius.”

“You’re an idiot, is what you are,” Bucky grumbles, and Steve hands him the cloth so he can wipe his chest. Bucky sits up on his elbows, picks at the dried wax with his fingernails. “Ugh, look at this, I’m gonna have it in my chest hair for the next week.”

“You wanted it,” Steve shrugs, and Bucky pauses, glances sideways at Steve.

“Yeah,” he agrees, voice quiet suddenly. “Yeah, god, I wanted it.”

“Anyway,” Steve says. Shoves his elbow into Bucky’s ribs, exactly the way he knows now how to take him down and pin him there, and Bucky goes, pliant. There are red marks on his skin where the wax dripped, and Steve looks at him a minute, touches Bucky’s jaw and pushes his head back to bare his throat. Leans down and presses his lips against the skin, deceptively gentle, and then bares his teeth, bites down hard enough it might almost draw blood.

“Oh,” Bucky gets out, arching up into it even as it must sting, and god, Steve’s thrumming with it again already; he doesn’t know how he ever got this far without it. “Christ, Rogers, I get it. I won’t go round letting other people leave marks on me, that satisfy you?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, pulling away. “Suits me fine. You better button your collar up high the next few days, I guess.”

“Christ, it’s too hot for that,” Bucky mutters, but when Steve looks up at him he’s smiling, and Steve sets his fingers against Bucky’s pulse, feels it trip under his fingertips.

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes you just see [a photoset of pre-war pretty twink bucky barnes](http://notcaycepollard.tumblr.com/post/177891301241/socursethemoon-lets-be-honest-steve-took-all) and then you gotta write 4k about his low-cut shirts and slutty collarbones, I guess
> 
> come join me [on tumblr](http://notcaycepollard.tumblr.com/)


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